One For the Road
by Heliotropical
Summary: The obligatory Spock-gets-drunk-on-chocolate fic. Fluffy, pointless, sucrose-laden.


**A/N: **More pointless fluff! May be finished at some point (maybe)...

It was all Chekov's fault.

As a rule, Jim (along with approximately 97.8% of the crew) found it exceedingly difficult to stay angry with the young Russian: between his unfailing energy and large earnest brown eyes, he usually didn't even get to "I'm wery sorry, Keptin" before all was forgiven. And on the one hand, in this case he really wasn't to blame. It wasn't like he planned it or anything. But on the other hand, it was Chekov who had to go and have a birthday just as the ship was due for its first routine maintenance and shore leave on Earth, and of course he had to let the date slip while chatting (while on duty at the helm, Jim might add) to Sulu, who had told Uhura, who of course noticed that not only would the _Enterprise_ crew be on Earth for said date but that it would be their first day on the planet, meaning that most people would still be in San Francisco checking in with Starfleet Command, meaning that it was the perfect opportunity for her to organize a fabulous celebration of the ensign's obtaining eighteen years of age, So yes, it was Uhura who actually started the thing; but Chekov's party, Chekov's responsibility, puppy-dog eyes be damned.

By the time Jim arrived the party was already rolling. The lieutenant and somehow managed to reserve a half-kilometer-long stretch of Baker Beach for the occasion, and within the short space of an afternoon covered it with balloons, streamers, picnic tables, and an elaborate outdoor bar and grill under a series of banners proclaiming "Happy Birthday Pavel A. Chekov" in more languages than he could recognize. Rigellian dance club music blared from speakers set up near the bar. Everywhere he looked his officers were laughing, chatting, flirting, dancing, like kids anywhere; it was easy to forget that with most of his crew made up of cadets pushed through graduation to fill holes in the fleet devastated by the _Narada_, underneath their careful professionalism they were still very young. Brilliant, battle-hardened college kids, but college kids nonetheless. It was nice to see them relaxed and off their guard for once, even if now he barely recognized them in their civvies and smiles. That night he was even more fashionably late than usual, thanks to the reluctant half-Vulcan he was practically dragging along behind him.

"I still do not think this is advisable, captain," Spock whispered- or rather shouted due the the volume, but with the intent of whispering- to him as they stepped onto the sand. "In this environment these crewmembers will unavoidably be inclined to interact with you as a peer, but if such familiarity is retained onboard the _Enterprise_ it could result in insubordination."

"Oh relax, Spock!" he answered. "Don't you think I'm grown up enough to be a friend at a party and captain on the bridge?"

"I was not implying-" At that moment a pair of young women hurtled between them, (good Lord, was that Lt. Schaeffer from engineering waving a man's shirt over her head?) followed by a shirtless, barefoot Scotty laughing wildly in hot pursuit. Spock winced visibly as they brushed by him, and Jim immediately felt a twinge of guilt. Loud music and constant pressure from the crowd were definitely not the sensitive Vulcan's idea of a good time. But too late now, he had spent an hour and a half convincing Spock to come along, there was no way he was going to turn back now. Instead, he put on his all-purpose cocky grin.

"C'mon, let's go find Bones!" He grabbed Spock's elbow and started towards the bar. By habit he set himself up as a walking barrier between his first officer and the crowd, to protect him from the jostling and intrusive contact with strangers. Spock followed him dutifully.

As he expected, the doctor was at the bar, nursing a somewhat suspect green beverage. "Jimmy-boy!" he exclaimed, just a little louder than was strictly necessary to be heard over the music. "There you are! What the hell took you so long? I thought you'd be at this thing like moths to rice. I mean, white to a- my God, you brought _him _along? What, are you two glued together at the hip now?"

"I assure you," said Spock, "it was against my wishes."

"Well, since you're here, be kind and try not to suck _all _the life out of the party."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Nice to see you too!" Jim cut in. _Keep smiling, keep smiling_.

Bones harumphed. "Someone had to keep an eye on these kids. You never know when the next drunken brawl will break out and some idiot'll come cryin' to me with a broken nose, or vomit everywhere and need emergency electrolytes, or food poisoning! Is that guy at the grill even a real cook? I've warned you about the dangers of mishandled meat, haven't I?"

"Plenty of times, doc. But ya know, I just may risk it for a plate of real, unreplicated ribs. How about you, Spock? Anything to eat? They've probably got veggie-kabob or something."

"No, thank you." Spock was standing even stiffer and straighter than usual, his expression resolutely blank, as if attempting to blend in with the beach furniture. Well, so much for his barbeque dinner- there was no way he was leaving his friend here alone.

"How 'bout a drink then?" McCoy offered.

"I see little logic in consuming unpleasantly flavored beverages for the sole purpose of rendering oneself mentally compromised."

"But Spock," Jim argued playfully, "isn't it true that Vulcans metabolize ethanol in such a way as to be unaffected by its psychoaffective properties?" Geez, maybe he _was_ spending too much time with Spock, if he could casually spit out shit like that.

"That is true." His first officer nodded solemnly.

"So you might as well drink, just to get the full 'human party' experience, right?" Up went to skeptical eyebrow, but whatever, Jim would take that as consent. "Bartender! Two Andorian brandies, on the rocks." And, as a sort of apology for having made him come here in the first place, he extended two fingers towards him. To his relief, Spock returned the gesture, and their fingertips tingled warm against each other. No hard feelings.

Jim thought he saw McCoy roll his eyes, and caught some muttering about public displays of affection. but to the untrained eye their quiet exchange would hardly be perceived as a display of anything; unlike some of what was transpiring on the sandy dance 'floor.' He almost shouted to one couple to get a room, but as captain that struck him as somewhat awkward. Instead he let it slide and turned back to his friends. "So, where's the guest of honor?"

"Last I saw," McCoy grumbled, "doing jello shots over by the fire. Miss Chapel and her girls got their greedy little hands on him." Now it was Jim's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Oh don't worry, they're just cooing and fussing over him. He'll always be 'sewenteen' to them."

"Hey, he's an adult, he isn't on duty tomorrow, it isn't my business."

"Like that's ever stopped you from meddling before? Right!"

"You're one to talk!"

"I'm the chief medical officer, everything is my business! As it pertains to the crew's health and well-being, of course..."

"Oh, shut up!" Jim punched the doctor's arm.

"Just don't come cryin' to me if he pukes all over you or something."

"Yeah, we should go congratulate him before he gets to that point. Save our, uh, standing room?" But there was no need, for at that moment the crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses. At the commotion all three turned around just in time to see a half dozen young officers (could that be ensign Vincetti from upper-deck security in the sequined purple vest? _Really?_) holding a flimsy beach chair above their shoulders. In the chair was ensign Chekov himself.

Ensign Chekov, clad in a truly awful Hawaiian shirt, draped with pink and gold streamers, magnificently drunk, holding a bowl of pretzels and tossing them down to his cheering shipmates.

"Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!" McCoy groaned.

Jim looked back and forth from the procession to the horrified doctor to Spock, who had that playful spark in his eye, subtle enough so that any casual observer would think they were imagining it, but that Jim instantly recognized as humor. The captain couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. Wild, reasonless, whole-bodied laughter at nothing and everything, as if all the terrible events of the past month that had built up like fluid around his heart had suddenly burst through and were streaming out of him in irrepressible peals of mirth.

"Jim? What the hell's so damn funny?" He tried to answer but his stomach was cramped, his lungs were in spasms, tears rolled down his face. He bent over his knees, then surrendered to the inevitable and collapsed on his back in the sand, still laughing uproariously. When he opened his eyes Spock was leaning over him with a look of such genuine concern that he couldn't resist but grabbed his head with both hands and planted a fierce kiss on his forehead. His silky black fringe tickled his nose. Jim would have stayed there all night but Spock sprang back to his feet, blushing green to the tips of his ears.

"Hey, pull yourself together," he heard McCoy say, "yer drink's here."

"However," said Spock, "I do not believe the captain is in need of any further intoxication."

"Good point, maybe I should just take care of it."

"Don't you dare!" The prospect of Bones stealing his drink was enough to snap him out of his merry daze. He got up as quickly as he could, unceremoniously brushed the sand off his rear and lunged for the glass. "Here's too... whatever," he said, and downed the orange liquid in one gulp. It was cool and pleasantly sharp; he felt his head clearing. "Go on, Spock! You have to at least try it."

The Vulcan sniffed the glass, then took a cautious sip. "Fascinating," he said after a moment of thought, "I was not aware that the flowers of the _Diosix belvetica minor _could be fermented to the extent necessary to produce this level of alcoholization."

"Learn new things every day, huh?" said McCoy. "Now, if all you're going to do with that is stare at it..."

"Not at all, doctor. The taste is not altogether unappealing." To all of their surprise he took another, more enthusiastic sip. But then his lip curled. "The aftertaste, however, most decidedly is."

"Aftertaste? It's Andorian brandy, there ain't no aftertaste! Oh don't say it, I know my human taste buds are not sufficiently refined for... just give it here." Aftertaste or not, Bones emptied the glass gracefully.

Suddenly the music stopped. Jim startled at the abrupt silence, and an uproar immediately rose from the dance floor. But then Uhura's voice came over the loudspeakers, in a considerably different tone than the one Jim had grown used to from her shipwide announcements. "Listen up, everybody! There's cake on the table under the red balloons, but before we cut it let's all sing happy birthday to our ensign Chekov! _Happy birthday to you..._" And the whole crowd burst out in song. It was as loud as the dance music, and lacking the redeeming features of a throbbing bass line or an identifiable key; not surprisingly, there were no campus a capella groups at Starfleet Academy. Jim thought Spock looked slightly ill. "_Happy birthday dear Paaveeeelll... happy birthday to you!_"

"Hey Spock" he said as the cheering finally subsided, "you can't tell me that Vulcans don't eat birthday cake."

"As a matter of fact, we do not."

"Well... too bad! _You're_ going to." So yes, alright, in retrospect the events that followed were in some small way Jim's fault. But it wasn't like he could possibly have known.

It was a magnificent cake. Four feet in diameter at the base, five ascending layers coated with thick chocolate frosting. Candied flowers, puffs of whipped cream and frosting blooms lined the edges; the exposed top surface of each layer was decorated with chocolate shavings and sprinkles. At the very top there was an enormous pile of whipped cream and, as if a jewel in the crown, a palm-sized chocolate model of the _Enterprise_.

Jim found himself drooling in a way usually reserved for when Spock performed his occasional shirtless meditation session in the captain's quarters.

"Nobody take any yet!" Uhura ordered, waving a knife at the hungry crowd. "Chekov! Get your Russian rear up here!" The ensign was pushed unceremoniously up to stand next to the cake. There was a cascade of clicks and small flashes as everyone with a holorecorder snapped his picture.

After a minute enough was enough and Uhura cut the first slice for Chekov. He could be seen devouring it greedily while the rest of the crowd formed a rough queue for their own pieces. However, the queue rapidly disintegrated into a chaotic mêlée, and McCoy swore as one young man stomped on his feet and pushed past him. "What are you, seven years old?" he shouted, "Wait in line!"

"Fascinating," said Spock, who to avoid the crowd was pressed up against Jim close enough that he could feel a heartbeat fluttering against his lower ribs.

"Hmm," said Jim.

"I have observed that it is atypical for human youth to show such enthusiasm for ancient conventions: the ritual consumption of a sweetened wheat-flour product such as 'cake' is a practice dating back to ancient Rome, already well established by the late Republic, in fact."

"Is that so," said Jim. Now, Vulcans as a rule do not like to be touched: it seemed to be a species characteristic, a product of their intense privacy (neurotic, he would say on a bad day) and the potential awkwardness of touch-telepathy. Spock didn't have a 'personal space bubble' so much as a ten-foot wide flight zone. But somewhere along the line Jim noticed that he had been accepted into that flight zone, that Spock had adopted his personal space as an extension of his own, and since their minds already brushed up against one another it was alright if sometimes their skin did too. Spock let Jim touch him. He let him in. It was a level of trust that Jim had never experienced before, both a thrill and a terrifying responsibility, that even now from their simple contact let butterflies loose in his stomach.

"Forget this, Jim!" McCoy broke in. "If you really need your cake we can come back when this mess has cleared out!"

"No, it'll all be gone by then! And Spock needs his Roman wheat-flour product!"

"..._what? _ Whatever you say, I'm going back to the bar."

"Why don't you and Spock go wait at a table, I'll get some for all of us."

That satisfied Bones and got his first officer out of the mob. Jim had plenty of practice moving through dense crowds (mostly from fleeing while on the wrong end of a bar fight, but the same technique was applicable here) and he quickly made his way to the front. Pulling off the same tricks while going against the current and carrying three paper plates of cake took considerably more effort, but he wasn't captain for nothing, right?

Now for the real challenge. "On Vulcan, all food consumption is dictated by dietary requirements: there is no logic in eating a substance for pleasure which has negligible nutritional value."

"But it's _delicious!_" Jim insisted, through a mouthful of chocolate cake. "Okay, look at it this way: captain's orders." Spock gave his best attempt not to roll his eyes, resignedly stuck a fork into his slice of cake, and tasted it. His eyes lit up. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

"Jim!" he exlaimed, and just barely caught himself. "This is... a most novel experience."

McCoy was chuckling. "Would'ja look at that, Mr. Spock has a sweet tooth!"

"A most illogical expression," Spock started, but he seemed too interested in the cake to comment further.

Jim was delighted. He was also surprised: he hadn't _actually _expected Spock to like it if he tried it. So far the only human food Spock seemed to enjoy was oatmeal, which he ate for breakfast every single day, completely plain without any milk or sweetener of any kind. Every single day. Usually all of the captain's efforts to enliven his diet were met with a "Thank you, but, to use a human phrase, I 'like it this way'" followed by a dark glare. ("Vulcans do not 'glare'"? Bullshit.) Well, Spock's taste buds were still half human, and considering the percentage of people on Earth who enjoyed chocolate it was not statistically improbable that he would be among their numbers.

_Did I really just think that? _he thought a moment later. _Damn, he really is rubbing off on me_. It was like he had a universal translator in his head, putting things in and out of Spock-speak. Not that he minded terribly- it would have been tough to get through the day without it. It was just a little odd hearing his _own _thoughts in his friend's cool, precise diction.

"All this sugar's making me thirsty," McCoy said.

Jim agreed. He followed the doctor back to the bar. For a few minutes it was like old times, just two friends talking about nothing in particular, McCoy's Georgia drawl becoming more pronounced with every sip of his mint julep. Then with a jolt Jim realized Spock hadn't come with them.

"Shit," he blurted out in the middle of a sentence, "shit. Where's Spock?"

"What?" McCoy rolled his bright blue eyes. "I have no idea! I'm sure he's fine."

Nonetheless, Jim took off; McCoy groaned and trotted after him. He pushed through the crowd for what seemed like an eternity- repeating to himself that there was only so much trouble a grown Vulcan could get himself into in so short a space of time- before he finally caught sight of the familiar lean silhouette and glossy black hair, standing next to the cake table. "Spock!" he shouted. The creature in question turned his head.

Spock was fine alright- just a little _too_ fine. He was smiling, and not his enigmatic glimmer of amusement but a big, goofy, toothy grin. He was still holding a fork, poised _in flagrante delicto _over a gaping hole in the cake. When he saw his friend he laughed out loud.

"Uh... Spock?" This was weird. This was very weird. The Spock who Jim knew (and he knew his Spock pretty darn well) did not smile, he did not laugh, and he certainly did not clap Jim on the shoulder and with the other hand lightly caress his cheek. Or for the latter, not in public at least. Was this some kind of bizarre practical joke? What the _fuck_? He threw a panicked look to McCoy, whose face betrayed a shifting mix of bafflement, humor and nausea.

"Always be prepared!" he grumbled, and pulled a medical tricorder out of his jacket. As he read the scans from around Spock's head, his expression changed into shock to mirror the captain's. He took a deep breath. "He's drunk, Jim."

"_What?!_ But that's impossible! Didn't you say that Vulcans don't get drunk?"

"We don't," Spock slurred, "and we don't lie. Ha! That's bullshit! We lie all the time!"

To say that Jim was taken aback would be an understatement on an epic scale. For a moment his thought process stopped completely, his mind drawing a blank as he attempted to reconcile his sense of reality to this scene. It was either one of the more disturbing or hilarious things he had ever seen, or both; or, equally plausible, it was actually he who was intoxicated and hallucinating.

While his mind was stuck in a jam, Spock seized the opportunity to sidle in closer so that their chests were pressed against each other and their faces were inches apart. His cheeks were flushed green and his eyes were foggy. His heart was racing, even by Vulcan standards, against Jim's stomach, and he was making a low rumbling sound deep in his chest that Jim felt as much as he heard. His breath was warm and sweet, smelling of chocolate more that anything else, without a hint of alcohol. His arms wrapped around Jim, and with a shaky hand he smoothed down his unruly golden hair. "You're pretty," he purred.

"You're not bad yourself," Jim flirted back by habit, despite his concern, very much aware of Spock's closeness.

"Jesus Christ on a bike!" McCoy had buried his face in his hands. "Get a room, you two!"

"Mmm, that would be the most ad-visible... advisable course of action," said Spock, his rumbling sound becoming easily audible. The doctor let out a long string of curses.

"Hey Bones," said Jim as he reluctantly extricated himself from Spock's tightening embrace, "Great as this is, _what the hell is going on_?"

"How should I know? I don't-" He stopped suddenly. Then, another bout of cursing. "Xenobiochemisty, sophomore year. Extra credit question on Gilligan's midterm."

Jim looked back and forth between his two friends with increasing distress. McCoy looked distracted and vaguely horrified; the poor Vulcan looked less than steady on his own two feet, so he wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let Spock lean on him (and nuzzle his neck). A million terrifying scenarios flashed through his head, a million things in their drinks or their lunch or in the sand that could have disturbed Spock's sensitive biochemistry.

"What is it, Bones, _what_?" he practically shouted. Badass as he was, he was finding it difficult to maintain his composure when Spock was _poisoned_.

"It's the cake. Alcohol doesn't have much effect on Vulcans, but _chocolate_ does."

He let out a long breath of relief. "So he actually is drunk? On chocolate?" McCoy nodded. "...You didn't set this up, did you?"

"Hell no!" the doctor sputtered. "That particular biological factoid hasn't crossed my mind since pre-med. You think I _want_ to see that green-blooded hobgoblin drooling all over you?" Spock took this as his cue to progress from Jim's neck to nibbling his left ear. Perfect time for Chekov and a gaggle of young women (he definitely didn't recognize these; local girls crashing a Starfleet crew party?) passed them: they almost walked by without noticing, but at the last minute Chekov did a double take, eyes widened to saucers, and with all caution thrown to the wind he raced off yelling for Sulu. Great. Just great. So much for his hard-earned air of captainly authority and professionalism. He did his best to send the girls off with his tried and true "get lost"-glare, though it surely looked ridiculous coming from a guy with his drunk, amorous _Vulcan _first officer clinging onto him. Thank God they got the message and scurried away, giggling furiously.

"The universal unfolding of the singularity f(x)=x5," Spock whispered in his ear like a love poem. "In three unfolding parameters. Three control factors and one behavior axis. Codimension three! F(x)=x5+ux3+vx2... x2..."

"Time to get you home, Spock!"

"No!" The Vulcan abruptly pulled away from him. "No. I do not wish to depart yet. There is a wide variety of Earth customs and behavior axes with which I am as yet with- with which- I am unfamiliar. It is my duty, as science officer..." He stumbled off towards the cake.

"Sorry Spock, we're cutting you off," Jim said as he grabbed his arm.

"But it is a tradition dating back to ancient Rome!" he protested.

"Too bad you ain't Roman then," McCoy cut in. He took Spock's other arm and together they eased him into a beach chair.


End file.
